


Just Once

by ForzaDelDestino



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 01:14:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForzaDelDestino/pseuds/ForzaDelDestino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the final episode of "Merlin" Series 3, with the successful rebellion against Morgana and her usurpation of the throne of Camelot. Arthur and his little army-in-exile have triumphed, but they need to seek out the remnants of Morgana's followers. The crown prince and his knights scour outlying areas of the kingdom for Morgana's renegades...and, naturally, Merlin refuses to be left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Once

**Part I: Merlin**

Merlin's a country boy, and forests don't intimidate him. They don't intimidate Arthur either; he's hunted in the woods around Camelot since he was twelve. But they're not in the woods around Camelot, not any longer. In the past day or so, they've ridden practically to the border of what had been Cenred's kingdom, on a punitive mission of sorts.

The brief reign of the usurper, Queen Morgana, is over. The rebellion led by Arthur has triumphed. Evidence suggests that the witch Morgause is dead, or at least wounded and deprived of her powers. Her immortal army has been destroyed – only Merlin, Lancelot, and Gaius know how – and Arthur is hunting the remnants of Morgana's group of mortal supporters, traitors to Camelot, former friends and henchmen of Cenred's, small bands of renegades last seen heading in the direction of the late King Cenred's lands.

It's unlikely that these renegades have any magical powers, but their loyalty to Morgana seems certain, and they've been ravaging the local countryside, raiding towns and terrorizing villagers. Had they been true to Camelot they would not have fled after the crown was restored to Uther. Arthur has warned his men to use caution in approaching them, just in case Morgause's magic was in any way contagious. He has brought a troop of fifteen knights and as many common soldiers with him, and Merlin of course, because Merlin refuses to stay behind at court.

They have been riding nearly all day, with scarcely a break for meals, and Merlin glances over at Arthur, wondering when they'll pause to make camp. Over the past, what is it, three years, he has gotten used to Arthur's continual presence in his thoughts, and become accustomed to the prince's good looks. But when he peers at him sideways he admires the cap of clear blond hair, with its texture of heavy silk, and the strong, imperious, flawlessly carved profile. Those well-muscled shoulders, broad chest, narrow waist. Arthur sits his horse with ease, as though the animal between his thighs were some extension of his own self, whereas Merlin still rides like a sack of onions. At least he doesn't fall off as often as he used to.

He tries not to think about it, but he's aware that he's been in love with the prince for a long time. As for Arthur...Arthur treats him as he always has, with casual arrogance, good-natured condescension, exasperation, and the occasional friendly gesture, but he doesn't really know how Arthur _feels_. Magic doesn't help him, there. Instinct tells him that Arthur feels _something_ , he just isn't sure what that something is, and today he has caught the prince staring at him more than once, but there's no telling precisely what that means.

He supposes those stares could mean any of three things:

"I've finally realized that you're a sorcerer, Merlin, and I'm sorry if you feel attached to your head, because you're going to lose it as soon as we get back to Camelot."

Or, "I don't know what possessed me to bring you along on this mission. I should send you back to the castle, where at least you could do some good by helping Gaius with the wounded, instead of alerting the enemy by making a hideous din, as usual, and giving away our position."

Or, "I want you, Merlin, but I can't do anything about it. You know that. I'm a prince, and you're…well, you know. Not to mention that you're a _man_."

Arthur could have him for the asking, but he does not ask. Merlin thinks he knows why; even if it were Arthur's wish (which is far from certain), there's little doubt that they would be found out eventually, and what impact would that have on the knights and other soldiers? The idea of the prince playing about with a noblewoman's maidservant, Guinevere or someone like her, can't be difficult for them to deal with, as lords have been tumbling servant girls since time immemorial, but a youthful manservant? Well, perhaps the ancient Greeks did things like that, if one is to believe what one reads (and Merlin knows that scarcely a handful of the men he now rides with have ever picked up a book), but princes of Camelot are supposed to be above that sort of nonsense. At least, this is what Merlin imagines the knights would think.

"Look out where you're going, _Mer_ lin," Arthur says sharply as Merlin's horse veers slightly off the path, in response to his absent-minded pulling on the reins.

"Prat," Merlin mumbles under his breath.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

On the third afternoon they stop for a breather. They've already ridden through two small villages that have been raided by the renegades, although thankfully the louts were in too much of a hurry to burn the homes or ravish any women. Arthur and his men help the villagers re-erect the walls round both settlements, making them much better and stronger, and too high for any mounted horse to jump. Now, they're resting in a forest clearing, and Arthur takes Sir Bors and Sir Balin with him to find some high ground and scout out the neighboring countryside. Merlin watches them go with something like relief, because he needs some time away from Arthur so as to put his thoughts in order and get his roiling emotions under control.

The knights have regained some of the confidence they lost during Morgana's very brief and violent reign, and they are cheerful, lounging about, swapping stories about battles and romantic conquests, and telling jokes. The weather is warm and pleasant, and after a while a number of them drag off their shirts and entertain themselves with impromptu wrestling matches. Merlin watches them heave and strain, but his mind isn't really on their contest; he is hoping Arthur and his men haven't run smack into a middle of a band of marauders, and wondering whether he shouldn't go after them to make certain they're safe.

Young Sir Lucan lands on his back with a thump in the middle of the clearing, and the other knights cheer as he gets to his feet and shakes his head with a rueful grin. His opponent, Sir Sagramore, raises his fists in the air to general applause, and then, as he glances about for someone else to defeat, his eye falls on Merlin.

"Hey there, Merlin!" he shouts good naturedly, grinning from ear to ear. "Come on and give me a match."

The other knights and soldiers howl with laughter, but it's friendly laughter; they all like Merlin, and have a degree of respect for him for having lasted this long as the prince's manservant. They know Sagramore will go easy on him. So they applaud loudly when Merlin sighs, stands up, and approaches the meaty Sir Sagramore, edging round him in the hope of getting the larger man to turn and get the sun in his eyes. He won't use magic. There's no point in risking it for the sake of something like this.

"God's sake, Merlin, take your shirt off," one of the men says jovially, and Merlin grudgingly complies, pulling it over his head. There are a few whistles and amiable wolf calls at the sight of his sloping shoulders and lean, pale torso, but they all shout encouragingly as he closes with Sir Sagramore and avoids the man's attempt to grasp his wrist and twist him round. With luck, he does get the sun in Sir Sagramore's eyes, which enables him to hook his heel round the knight's ankle so that he falls, but of course Merlin falls with him. He leaps up, but so does Sir Sagramore, and although Merlin is quicker he's hardly a wrestler. Within minutes he is thrown flat on the ground with Sagramore easily holding him down, and there's a great deal of cheering and laughter from the watching men.

Merlin is laughing too, although in a muffled way because of Sagramore's weight on his chest, when suddenly he can breathe again. Arthur is standing over him; he has taken Sir Sagramore by the shoulders and plucked him off of Merlin as easily as a child might separate two small puppies, and Sagramore is looking a little sheepish as the chuckling of the other knights subsides.

"Are you alright, Merlin?" the prince asks without looking at him. He speaks mildly and doesn't seem angry, but Sir Sagramore looks even more sheepish.

"Just a game, sire," he says apologetically. "I didn't hurt you, did I, Merlin?"

"No, of course not," replies Merlin indignantly; why must Arthur always treat him as though he were a helpless infant? "I'm fine." Still not looking at him, Arthur holds out a hand to help him up, and Merlin reluctantly takes it. The prince hoists him to his feet, and then shouts out to the others that they will make camp here. They can send out scouts, to check on activity at the border, and there's a river nearby where they can refill their water skins and refresh themselves.

The knights stroll off to fetch their saddlebags as the soldiers argue over who's to take the first watch that night. Arthur settles the issue by appointing Sir Sagramore, who shrugs, laughs, claps Merlin on the shoulder and walks away.

Merlin sighs histrionically and goes off to find a bucket, to fetch water from the river.

**Part II: Arthur**

By the fourth day, Arthur is asking himself why the devil he bothered to bring Merlin along in the first place. But the answer comes to him before he's even finished framing the question.

He's brought Merlin with him because, damn it all, somebody has to keep his armor in shape and see to his other things, and help the common soldiers gather firewood, and because Arthur is of two minds about the way Gwaine - that is, Sir Gwaine - has been looking at his manservant. It doesn't seem quite proper, somehow, when the boisterous Gwaine slings his arm round Merlin's shoulders at any given opportunity, or slaps him on the back and then lets his hand linger. (Arthur likes the man; he's irrepressibly optimistic, and is the best swordsman he's met since Lancelot; still, what gives him the right to smile like that at the crown prince's manservant?) So, even though he's fairly certain that Merlin will be completely hopeless when it comes to hunting down the miscreants, he's brought him along for…for…well, for his own good.

Gwaine and Lancelot have been left behind in Camelot, to keep an eye on things and protect the castle and the town in case Morgana or any of her followers should return. They can keep an eye on the king, as well, and help Gaius see to it that he's on the road to recovery.

Arthur feels a little punch drunk. First, Morgana's treachery. Which he still has difficulty understanding. His half sister, as he's only just discovered. Well, she has been like a sister to him for most of his life. A contentious, difficult, ill-tempered sister, but nevertheless…he has always been fond of her, in his own way, and thought she was fond of him. He remembers the times she came to his aid, how she used to stand up for helpless servants like Guinevere or Merlin, before her disappearance and her apparent change of heart, and for a moment he feels like weeping.

Then, his father's condition. Uther has always been the rock of his existence. Not always right, Arthur concedes, sometimes too hasty in his judgements, too harsh, easily blinded by his hatred of magic. But still…his father, and the king. Now lethargic, weakened, almost pathetic in his mental and emotional frailty.

So he has more to worry about than his spindly idiot of a manservant. That insubordinate, stubborn, clumsy, frequently wrong-headed Merlin, who…who has always stood by him, who went into exile with him, even picked up a sword to protect him (wonders never cease). Oh hell, he should have left Merlin in Camelot after all. It isn't as if Gwaine would take him against his will. Of course, Gwaine's a charmer, there's no denying it, and if Merlin is willing…he looks over to where his servant is chatting casually with Sir Sagramore, and his mouth tightens.

"Merlin!" he shouts brusquely, "get over here and see to my armor."

Merlin raises one eyebrow (perhaps it's Gaius' influence), trots across the clearing, and they spend the next ten minutes getting Arthur out of his armor. Then he rummages in his pack for the polishing cloth and little hammer with which to deal with dents in the plate and loose links in the chain mail, and settles onto a nearby rock, hauberk in hand.

Arthur sees him wince as he sits down.

"What's the matter?" he says, his tone faintly sarcastic, as it often is when he speaks to Merlin. "Is your little bottom sore?"

"Yes," comes Merlin's typically insolent reply. "It's not as fat as yours."

Arthur swats the back of his head as he walks past him.

The knights exchange glances as soon as the prince is out of sight, and Merlin is too busy with the armor to notice.

Later that afternoon, they all gravitate towards the river, lulled by the beauty of the sunlight on the moving water, and the promise of refreshment. After four days in the saddle, they're all dust-laden, sweaty, and in need of a good wash. They take it in turns to bathe and swim, the knights first, of course, whilst others stand guard on the rocks above the river. His own brief swim over with, Arthur takes a turn on the lookout post, the type of thing his men love him for, and his eyes scan the trees behind them as the common soldiers and Merlin disrobe and pick their way over rocks into the deeper part of the stream.

The soldiers may not be as well-trained in swordsmanship and the like as the knights (and of course they're of common birth), but they're fit and strong, thanks to regular drills insisted on by the prince. Arthur surveys them with a satisfied air. Merlin has washed rapidly and is now making his way back to the bank, and Arthur realizes that he's never really seen him stripped before. Merlin is slim, as slender and straight as one of Arthur's lances. Narrow hips and long legs. He may be too thin, bony in fact, but he's in good condition - all of his practice bouts with Arthur have paid off, not to mention their days of hard living in the forest when Morgana ruled, and he has the lean, taut build of a runner rather than a wrestler or jouster.

The prince doesn't think he's ever seen anybody so pale, and so…He turns his face away from the river, and descends from the rock, looking grim. The knights nudge each other behind his back. They can't understand his restraint. If he wants his scrawny but rather pretty young manservant, why doesn't he simply take him? It might not be the most conventional of desires, but what of it? It's not the sort of thing that's unheard of amongst them, if the truth be told. (There's Sir Lucan and Sir Geraint, for example, although they're quite discreet about it, and Sir Lucan likes the ladies as well.) The prince can do no wrong, as far as they're concerned. The knights all worship Arthur, they would die for him without a second thought, and to see him so tense and withdrawn – as he's been since the first day of this expedition – upsets them. If they could (although they know Arthur would never stand for it) they would seize that clueless Merlin and dump him on the prince's sleeping roll that very night. Anything to see Arthur lose that frozen look. It's beginning to affect everybody's morale.

**Part III: The Lake**

On the morning of their fifth day in the forest, Arthur and his men rout a band of Morgana's renagades. It's same group that has been harassing local villages, raiding livestock pens and breaking into their grain storage. Those who choose to fight are killed, the others are sent back to Camelot under guard, to be tried and presumably imprisoned.

"Why take up arms for her?" Arthur asks their surly, shackled leader in tones of genuine puzzlement. "What has she done for you, to deserve your loyalty? What have I done to you to deserve your lack of it?"

"Her be the rightful heir," mutters the man, shuffling in his bonds. "Uther kept it secret, like, and now he should pay."

"Are you telling me," Arthur says quietly, keeping calm in the face of insolence, "that I am not my father's rightful heir?"

The man looks at him out of the corner of his eye, flinching, but of course Arthur does not strike him.

"There be stories," he says, almost under his breath. "About how ye were born. Fer years, yer lady mother could have no child." He flinches again, expecting a blow. "Then ye were born, and she died, and there was some tha' said yer dad had asked fer aid from..." He stops and the prince can get nothing more out of him. After a while, Arthur simply walks away, lips pressed tightly together and knuckles white.

He goes and sits by Merlin for a while, before getting up again and finding something else to do. He knows that he seeks out Merlin's company from habit; in the past, when he was distressed, or angry, or confused, it always felt rather comforting to have his manservant nearby. He's been alone with Merlin countless times since Merlin became his servant, but now, for some reason, he thinks that he should avoid this whenever possible, in future. Then he pushes aside the realization that this feeling is the result of having watched Merlin bathe in the river the day before.

The following day, fairly certain that they have cleared the area of vagabonds and Morgana-supporters, Arthur tells his knights that they will start back to Camelot in the afternoon. There will be one last sweep of the surrounding area, along the border of Cenred's land, and then they will set off for home. He himself will scout out the region, taking one or two men with him, and that should take, at the most, a few hours.

He walks over to where Sir Leon is sitting on the ground, staring gloomily at his right foot, and explains the situation to him.

"You should take Merlin, sire," Sir Leon says earnestly. For a moment his glance darts between Arthur and his manservant, although Arthur does not notice this.

"Right," says Arthur, suddenly remembering, very conveniently, that Merlin _does_ know this area, that Ealdor is just across the border in Cenred's...what _had been_ Cenred's kingdom, and that he isn't likely to be as much of a burden as usual under those circumstances. His knowledge of their surroundings might even be helpful.

Then he remembers something else, and says, "You will accompany us, Sir Leon."

"Forgive me, my lord," Leon replies, looking at the ground, at the campfire, anywhere but at the prince's face. "My…I won't be able to keep pace with you, sire." He points to his bleeding heel, and then to the large, wicked looking thorn he has just removed from it. He's fibbing, of course; his heel _is_ bleeding but it's hardly painful, and he's perfectly capable of walking at a brisk pace. But it would be better, perhaps, to send the prince off with Merlin. Give them time alone together. A little privacy might just do the trick.

"Er, need to bandage this," he says aloud, and winces elaborately. "Wouldn't want to hold you up."

"Right," says Arthur again, looking indecisive for perhaps three seconds. But his expression hardens, and he says "Come on then, _Mer_ lin," jerking his head in the direction they're to go and then striding off, leaving Merlin to scramble after him, carrying the prince's weapons, an extra cloak, and his own sword.

"I don't understand," Merlin says after they have walked through the trees for fifteen minutes in silence, "why the knights are so set on capturing _all_ of the rebels. Is it to make an example of them? Surely they're not a danger now; they've been defeated, they were in the wrong, and everybody knows it."

"It's a matter of principle, Merlin," Arthur mutters, not looking at him and pushing vigorously at branches that aren't even really in his way. "Think about it."

"I can't think like a knight," Merlin replies, sounding almost pleased.

"Obviously," Arthur snaps, and Merlin rolls his eyes.

The lake, when they stumble across it, is in a little clearing just on the border of Camelot, nestled deep in the woods. They don't really "stumble across it," as Merlin knows this area like the back of his hand, and knows that this will be a perfect place to catch their breath and refill their water skins. He also doubts that there are enemy forces anywhere nearby, but just to be safe he quietly throws a temporary concealment spell (something he has just learned and has been dying to practice) round the perimeter of the clearing.

Arthur silently hands him his empty water pouch, and Merlin fills it, and his own, from the little creek that runs into the lake. The air is rich with the scent of evergreens. Arthur sits down and mumbles something about taking a brief rest, and washing the mud off his boots, but Merlin looks at the tiny wavelets lapping at the shore, the very sight lifting his spirits. Before he can think twice about it, he's peeled himself out of his clothes and flung himself into the water.

"MER-lin," says Arthur with exasperation, but it's too late, Merlin's out of hearing, setting a neat, straight course for the center of the lake. Once he's there, he dives, surfaces a distance away, then flips over onto his back. In the water, he's as quick and flexible as an otter, a far cry from the awkward youth Arthur is so accustomed to. The prince walks to the edge of the water and watches as Merlin backstrokes almost halfway across the narrow lake, before turning over once more and heading for shore, making hardly a ripple, his head a dark spot against the brilliant blue and silver surface.

Arthur is charmed by his skill; it's nice to see that Merlin can do _something_ well, but his own competitive spirit won't let him simply stand there and watch. By the time Merlin turns again and is treading water just beyond the shallows, Arthur has stripped and is wading into the lake.

"Race you," he says peremptorily, pointing at a rock halfway across, its top standing above the ripples like the arching back of a dolphin.

Arthur is a powerful swimmer but Merlin swims high in the water, and fast, his lightness and lean build let him cleave the surface of the lake like an arrow. He makes it to the rock and waits. The prince arrives seconds later, and Merlin almost laughs to see the outraged expression on Arthur's face.

He manages to keep his expression serious, and Arthur, scowling, pushes off the rock and heads back, at a good clip, toward the little pebbly beach. Merlin follows, more slowly this time, and part way back he stops and turns somersaults in the water, swims a straight line in one direction before turning sharply, at an almost perfect right angle, and then dives under.

Alright, so he's a good swimmer, but Arthur thinks that perhaps they should be moving on. There's no point in staying, no point in…what was he about to say? He's a little annoyed, both with himself and his manservant, so he snaps, "Come on then, _Mer_ lin, we're leaving," and waits for the irrepressible idiot to stop showing off and come back to shore.

Merlin surfaces and stands up, hip-deep in water, shaking his head like a puppy so that drops of water go flying in all directions, and pushes that dripping mop of black hair back from his brow with both hands. Arthur frowns and chews on his lower lip as he looks him over. He isn't thinking when he takes a step forward, and another. He is less than an arm's length from Merlin now, and can hear his own breathing coming hard and fast.

Even the birds and the shrilling of insects seem to go quiet, although surely that's an illusion. Merlin lifts one dripping hand and places it on Arthur's chest. The prince looks at the hand and then looks him in the face, not smiling, not speaking.

"Arthur," Merlin whispers, almost soundlessly; it is pleading, but he does not care. Arthur takes another step towards him, and then they are flesh against flesh, heat in the coolness of the water. As their mouths connect and press tightly, then open, Merlin is trying to remember what Heledd, the blacksmith's niece, taught him behind the haystack in Ealdor, and Arthur is scrambling to recall what he's learnt with Lady Mahaut and the Countess Adela at court, the hot-eyed milady Elinor of Glastonbury, Lady Dierdre (daughter of the ambassador from Hibernia), and God only knows how many pretty servant girls who've thrown themselves into his bed over the past few years. He's a little out of his depth with Merlin, because Merlin, although all eagerness, is also all elbows and knees and sharp angles, whereas Arthur's accustomed to soft curves and rounded limbs.

In fact, they're _both_ out of their depth, but necessity is the mother of...the mother of...oh, whatever. Anyway, it doesn't matter, Arthur realizes, because the urgent caresses that are so effective with servant girls and noblewomen seem to be working just fine with Merlin.

Then they are stumbling in the direction of the shore, almost frantic with haste. Arthur spreads the old spare cloak on the ground, and pulls Merlin down.

"Just once, then," he says into Merlin's ear, before their lips come together in a terrifying, bruising kiss. "Just this once, Merlin." His back and shoulders are warm and hard beneath Merlin's hands, and Merlin can feel the muscles flexing and tensing. The prince is careful with him, he wants to be gentle, gradual, not hurt him, but Merlin is impatient; he wants Arthur _now_ , and when there is pain, searing and sharp, he tries to stifle his cries against his fist, and then against Arthur's shoulder, because he doesn't want him to stop. He can feel the prince pause and gasps out, "No, Arthur, it's alright...it's alright..." and Arthur is kissing his wet eyelashes, pulling him even closer, hands beneath his hips, the hardness within him moving again, and by the gods it still hurts, but it's beginning to be something else as well. " _Ah_!" he says, at the sudden, unexpected twinge of pleasure, and before long there are waves and waves of it, and it's like sinking into a sea of sensation - _what_ a cliché, but it's true. He looks up: Arthur's face is tense, teeth clenched behind parted lips, eyes wild, as he pushes deeper. Arthur's hand, large and shapely, calloused from sword and spear and riding, closes round him; they strain together, and then again, and squeeze eyelids shut in unison; it's like magic, suddenly, like the feeling he has when magic sweeps through him, only more so. Merlin hears himself cry out, but in a kind of blinding, astonishing release; he hears Arthur shout his name. Then the breath is driven out of him as Arthur collapses, his full weight pressing Merlin into the yielding roughness of the cloak, and the softness of the layer of dry pine needles below it.

A while later, when he can think clearly, Merlin cracks his eyes open and peeps at Arthur. They have fallen slightly apart, and the prince is lying on his side, his own eyes half open, smiling a little. A light breeze blows over them and Merlin shivers involuntarily; Arthur pulls him gently against the warmth of his chest. He lies still and lets Merlin's curious hands discover the hard, beautiful terrain of his body. His own fingers card through the silky wetness of Merlin's dark hair, stroke the smooth, milk-pale skin he has wanted to touch for...how long? ever since he first met the young man? (That first angry, confrontational, encounter in the courtyard, when Arthur twists Merlin's thin, sinewy wrist in his hand, and all his senses rear up, screaming at him, " _Mine_!") After a bit, he shifts to give Merlin room to raise his head for kissing; they roll over, and over again in the folds of the cloak, Arthur rasps out, "Merlin, Merlin, _Merlin_ ," and "just once" turns into just twice.

Merlin is still trembling, his heartbeat, beneath Arthur's palm, beginning to ease back into its regular rhythm, when the prince takes a reluctant look at the position of the sun in the sky. It's getting late, and he has to get up, because he knows that if he doesn't get up _right now_ he will want to take his manservant again. He's still dizzy with the feel of those limbs, hard with muscle but so lean, with Merlin's faintly spicy, woodsy scent, those unbelievable lips. So he gets to his feet with an effort, and reaches down to help Merlin to his. They wash hastily and self-consciously in the lake and flounder back to the bank without saying anything. Then they dress in silence, standing a few paces away from each other, Merlin a little unsteady on his feet and flushed to the tips of his ears. He goes to Arthur and fastens the laces of his shirt, in the way he always does, his eyes downcast, and then Arthur punches him awkwardly on the shoulder as they set off for camp. Merlin chuckles a little at the gesture, and any embarrassment that's arisen between them begins to fade.

Less than half an hour later, they top a rise in the path, between the trees, and find themselves looking down at their companions. Before they descend to the campsite, before they're seen by the others, they look at each other, Merlin solemnly and Arthur with just a touch of masculine pride. Arthur reaches out and touches Merlin lightly on the upper arm, and then they step forward and Sir Leon spots them.

"Sire," Sir Leon says with relief, and the knights and soldiers rise to their feet.

"We found no evidence of enemy encampments," Arthur states calmly. "The area is secure." He does not look at his manservant, who is standing behind him, but Sir Leon notes the faint flush across the crown prince's bronzed cheekbones, and the deeper blush that suffuses Merlin's pale, angular face.

"Your orders, sire?" he asks, inwardly pleased to find that his scheming has born fruit.

"We return to Camelot _tomorrow_ ," the prince says in a cheerful voice, and the other knights look surprised but are hardly inclined to argue. A little rest will do them all good. But why tomorrow, when they were meant to start back this afternoon? A few exchange meaningful looks when Arthur's back is to them, some surreptitiously pay up their bets, and Merlin lowers his head so that nobody can read his face. It's rather obvious what the knights are thinking, and he imagines he will be on the receiving end of some sly comments for the remainder of their sojourn in the wild. It would have been better, he muses, if they simply headed back to Camelot, but at the same time he is grateful that they aren't. He can't remember ever feeling this happy, but he's also feeling remarkably…sore, and it occurs to him that Arthur has postponed the hours of hard riding out of consideration for this fact.

Determined to behave as though nothing in the world has changed, Merlin gingerly seats himself on a tree stump and gets to work on some damaged rings in the prince's chain mail. Arthur himself moves about the camp smiling, exchanging friendly words with the knights closest to him, conferring seriously with the sergeant-at-arms about the remnants of their food supply. Every once in a while, he glances briefly at Merlin, his expression one of pride, discovery, confusion, and satisfaction.

"If he begins to look too smug," says Merlin to himself, "I'll put stinging nettles in his bedroll! I'll turn his skin of water into vinegar!" But he knows that he will do no such thing, no matter how cheerful and smug and pleased with himself Arthur might look. The prince is himself once more, self-confident and at ease, and Merlin sees that the knights are looking relieved. When he stands up, Arthur's armor in hand, he's surprised to find that none of them are eying him with distaste; instead, they appear to be quite pleased with him. It's almost as though they were saying, "There now, it didn't take much effort to put things right for the prince, did it? A little shag in the woods is just what's needed to jolly a fellow out of a bad mood. If anybody deserves a few moments of pleasure, it's Arthur." As far as they are concerned, all is right with the world again.

Arthur doesn't know what his knights are thinking, but he is of much the same mind—all is right with the world again. The tension, the anxiety, from which he has been suffering since Morgana's reign of terror began, and never really let up when it came to an end, have been smoothed away. He glances over at his manservant, who is tending to the horses. How could anybody so passionate, so ardent, be standing there looking like the essence of purity, and boyish, youthful innocence? Merlin turns away, and Arthur's eyes stray to the darkness of his hair, where it comes to a point on his milky-pale nape, unaware that his own expression softens and his lips curve with a half-smile as he thinks back over those moments at the lake.

Later, when dark has fallen and everyone has eaten, the knights spread their bedding close to the fire, and a few take turns with the common soldiers to stand guard. After seeing to the camp's defenses—even though they are probably safe from harm, it always pays to be careful—Arthur makes his bed at the foot of a small tree whose branches spread above him like a natural canopy. Merlin curls up at his feet, as he usually does when they're on campaign, as any proper manservant would do, and listens to the night noises of insects shrilling and small animals rustling in the bushes, his companions snoring or sighing in their sleep. His own sleep is fitful, not distressingly so, but he knows that what he sees in his mind will stay with him forever.

Merlin isn't a seer like Morgana, he doesn't have true Second Sight, but there are rare occasions - mostly when he's asleep - when things come to him, in little flashes, small hints of the future. A bit like the visions he had when he met Taliesin. That night, he experiences these sudden flashes, and knows that he's not dreaming. He sees Excalibur. He knows that before long Arthur will be king in Camelot. He will marry, some sweet, kind and sympathetic girl...Gwen...yes, of course it will be Gwen. Gwen and Lancelot will love one another—however briefly—in spite of themselves, in spite of their goodness, their loyalty and devotion to the king. And what took place between himself and Arthur at the lake will happen again, become a secret but essential aspect of their life together. Perhaps not for some time, but he can wait. It's part of his future, his and the once and future king's; they are bound by destiny and love, and need and dependence. Merlin feels as if he's been branded, but he wouldn't exchange this invisible mark, this kind of servitude, for anything in the world.


End file.
